Mother
lives on the roof. She sits hawklike in her chair, watching the
swish of traffic far below. She really ought to move to a lower
floor—it would be so much more convenient. The stairs are
dark and there are so many of them. The elevator still works but
it’s a monstrous old thing, a swaying box hoisted by
rattling chains.

You
never know what will happen when the metal doors clang shut. The
elevator might go up or down or even sideways. It might turn a
somersault or go floating off into space. Anything is possible.
To make matters worse, the walls are paneled with simulated wood
grain that gives you the illusion that you are trapped inside an
oak box. A casket, maybe, except this casket is lined with
graffiti. For a giddy moment, you imagine a corpse carving dirty
pictures with a ragged fingernail.

As
you contemplate the scribblings, you wonder about all the people
who used to ride this contraption. Where are they now? The
fragrance of their perfume and tobacco has faded, and you have
little hope that anyone will join you on this jostling ride.

Then
the elevator shudders to a stop, and the doors creak open to
reveal a woman waiting in the corridor. So you will have company
after all! You arrange your face into a welcoming smile as she
bounces her shopping cart over the threshold.

“Down?”
Her voice has a slightly foreign lilt.

You
shake your head, apologetic. “Up.”

The
woman retreats. Even after the doors shut, you can hear the
muffled squeal of her shopping cart wheels. No one ever wants to
go up, certainly not as far as you must travel to reach Mother.

Mother
likes living high where she can lord over her neighbors,
commenting on their clothes and correcting their grammar. Her
judgments have always been harsh, but lately she has grown even
more difficult. Failing in health, she rants about government
conspiracies. She refuses to answer her phone and keeps the
doorway to the roof locked.

You
begged her for a key. “In case something happens.”

“Happens?”
her eyes narrowed.

“What
if you get sick? What if you can’t answer the door?”

“Then
break it down,” she said.

Despite
your arguments, Mother wouldn’t yield her key so you
finally went to the building supervisor and requested a
duplicate. It turned out to be one of those expensive Metlock
keys, a bulky silver thing with a heavy square fob and jagged
teeth along the spine. The deposit set you back $120.

You
hold the key tightly as the elevator makes its grinding ascent.
The sharp tip could do serious damage. If an unsavory stranger
stepped aboard and assaulted you, this key would make a lethal
weapon. Or if the elevator broke down, the key might become a
handy tool. Or (you finger the saw-tooth blade) you could use
this key to write something on the walls. What would you say?

You’re
too old for obscenities, and your political views are too complex
to condense into a slogan. But the urge wells like tears. Your
hand floats up as though pulled by a string and, unable to
resist, you press the key against the wall.

You
think you’ll make just one small dot. Who’d even
notice or care? The dot—it’s barely a nick—exposes
silvery metal beneath the faux wood grain. Then, amazingly, a
scratch unfurls. Although your arm is steady—you barely
move your hand at all—the scratch travels from the point of
the key all the way to the floor and (you imagine) even below to
some lower level.

Dizzy,
you pull back and that’s when you notice that all the words
and doodles on this wall are rolling downward. The illustration
of a vulva that had hovered at eyelevel is now at waist level,
and then it sinks until it’s just above the floor, and
then, whoosh! It’s gone. The graphic of a penis and
testicles, rendered to suggest a pistol, follows the same
trajectory. So you lift the key again, and this time you press
the point more assertively and begin to write.

You
write about the vague yearnings and inevitable disappointments of
childhood and adolescence, and you write about all the sacrifices
you are making now. You spew a lifetime of resentments: for
what?, you ask, for what? Your anger cuts deeply into the wall,
but you can’t form a complete sentence because the letters,
sparkling with metallic flecks, slide down. Then, just before
they vanish underfoot, specks of rust rise to the surface like
clotted blood.

Defeated,
you turn to press the button for the highest floor. How stubborn
and selfish of Mother to remain in this monolith of a building,
forcing visitors to endure a slow and potentially hazardous
voyage. And what about you? How ridiculous that now, in the prime
of your life, you spend all these hours in this absurd elevator,
moving—you now believe—in the wrong direction. At
your age and maturity, you should be traveling down and out.

The
elevator rocks and moans as though in agreement. Your hand on the
control panel turns into a fist. You shout, “I can’t
do this anymore!” And you pound the button with the worn
L—Lobby. Somewhere a pulley shrieks. You press the L again.
“Please…down…please…”

The
scribbles swirl like kite strings with names, slogans, and crude
drawings tangling in their descent. As they are sucked beneath
the floor, new graffiti cascades from the ceiling, turning the
walls into a Jackson Pollack animation of scrawled intents and
(you now suspect) cries for help. If you could only stop the
movement of these messages, you could also stop this perilous
ride. Dropping the key, you slap both hands against the wall.
Your palms squeak, leaving a smudge that scrolls down with the
inscriptions.

Turning
back to the controls, you press the 1 and the 2. Anything low
will do. With each command, the floor trembles but the elevator
doesn’t stop rising until, in desperation, you lean against
all the buttons simultaneously. This does the trick. Something
overhead sputters and a smoky smell wafts from the air vent. The
wall art grinds to a halt; the words Suck Me are fixed in time
and space. Metal doors groan halfway open.

The
space beyond the doors is dark. As your eyes adjust, you see
chains and a confusing mass of pulleys and gears. So. Here you
are, suspended somewhere between floors. But the situation isn’t
hopeless: With a little effort, you could climb one of the chains
to the concrete ledge, which is no more than five feet above.
Perhaps the ledge is the upper floor. Yes, after all this time
the elevator must have risen that far.

You
roll your sleeves and bend to scoop up the dropped key. Cradling
it in both hands, you indulge in a wistful fantasy. In this
fantasy, you struggle up through the gloomy shaft, unlock
Mother’s door, and step out onto the roof. In this fantasy,
Mother cries, “Sweetheart!” and wipes the grease from
your face. “Are you hurt?”

Leaning
into darkness, you stretch out an arm. The elevator swings like a
hypnotist’s watch. You wobble, catch your balance, and pull
yourself back to reality. You aren’t a child, and Mother
isn’t likely to coo over you, certainly not after she sees
your soiled face and tattered clothes.

It’s
awkward, what you’re trying to do. With one hand, you grasp
a chain. With the other hand, you grip the key. What sharp teeth,
you think again. With sudden euphoria, you realize that you will
not climb that final five feet. You will not climb a single foot,
no, not even an inch. Instead, you press the jagged spine of the
key against an iron link. You begin to saw.

How
easily the key cuts through grease and rust! You should have
thought of this years ago. Breathing in the scent of engine oil,
you listen for the snap of metal and the jingle of ancient chains
letting go.

Jackie
Cravenlives
in Schenectady, NY where she fixes and rents out old houses to
interesting people. Her writing has appeared in The
Berkeley Fiction Review, The Fourth River, House & Garden
Magazine, Pearl,
the Providence
Journal,
the Toronto
Sun, Verdad, Yuan Yang, Zahir,and
many other publications. She also writes the architecture pages
for About.com and has published two books on interior design, The
Healthy Homeand
The
Stress-Free Home(Rockport
Publishers). Visit her online at JackieCraven.com.